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I do not think I shall ever know what prompted me to check on my friend Sherlock Holmes that night. Instinct, perhaps. I had been restless all evening, worried about the legend of the tower room—doubly so once Holmes had announced his intention to spend the night in it—and when the clock on the mantelpiece chimed midnight, I found it easy to rouse myself from the light sleep that had overtaken me.
I certainly was not suspecting foul play at first. Naively, perhaps, I had assumed that Holmes would be safe. He would have taken every possible precaution, because that was who he was. Holmes could be absent-minded to the point of danger when it came to his experiments in our lodgings, but never during a case. The killer would not have an opportunity to get to him. Unless, of course, the legend was real and none of the castle’s inhabitants had killed Sir Charles.
It was therefore without much worry that I began ascending the stairs to the tower room. However, the further I climbed, the more I began to wonder if Holmes’ reassurances that he would be fine were not simply a product of wishful thinking on his part. He had promised to shout for me if anything occurred, and he had not; perhaps I was just letting the creepy atmosphere of the tower get to me. I tried unsuccessfully to dismiss it, but when I knocked at Holmes’ door and received no reply, the feeling of dread that had been building up in me reached a peak. Moved by panic more than reason, I did not hesitate to throw my weight against the door in order to break it down.
Finding Holmes prostrate on the floor of that accursed tower room made my blood run cold. He was alone in the room and the door had been locked from the inside, and for a moment, I feared the legend had been true after all, and that Holmes was well and truly dead. But upon kneeling by his side, I noticed the near imperceptible rise of his chest and a quiet groan escape his lips.
“Holmes!” I cried. I cursed my earlier shortsightedness. Why had I not insisted on spending the night by his side?
I threw his arm over my shoulders and lifted him to a standing position. He leaned heavily against my side but was managing to stay upright.
“Poison, Watson,” he breathed.
“I’ll take you back to my room,” I replied firmly, ready to argue with him if necessary.
But Holmes did not say a word; he seemed to barely be hanging on to consciousness as it was. I led him down from the tower and into my room. Holmes is not a light man, despite his near unnatural slimness, but I am not a weak one, and the adrenaline issuing from the fear of losing him gave me added strength. I nearly dragged him across the threshold. I lay him on the bed, and he immediately curled away, his face betraying a sudden spasm of pain.
“Arsenic, Watson,” he gasped as he bit back a groan. He was clutching his abdomen and looked in tremendous pain. “Quickly, the antidote!”
“Arsenic?” I echoed, momentarily at a loss. How could he have been poisoned with arsenic, when we had both eaten the same thing that evening?
A particularly loud groan stirred me to action, and I rushed to grab my Gladstone bag, thanking my lucky stars that I’d had the foresight to buy ipecacuanha on our way to the castle. It had seemed a ridiculous precaution at the time—after all, the victim was already dead—but as I administered it to Holmes, I could not help but imagine what might have happened if I had not thought of it. The idea that I might have been forced to watch Holmes die while I was helpless made me shiver with horror.
The following hour was unpleasant. Holmes was still in pain, and I could not help but fret. I loosened his collar and fetched the wash basin from the side table. Though I still could not understand how Holmes had come into contact with the poison, I needed to purge his system of it, and ipecac, while effective, was exhausting on his already weakened state. I still was not sure if he had even ingested the arsenic, but I could not see how else it could have been administered. Sprinkled on his clothes? An unlikely possibility, I thought as Holmes retched miserably into the wash basin. Perhaps, to be safe, I should—
“He’s very cunning, Watson.”
Holmes’ quiet words pulled me out of my thoughts. He was leaning back on the pillows, pale and shivering, but seemingly no longer in as much pain as before. He gave me a weak smile, and I returned it hesitantly, still not convinced the danger was past.
I reminded him again that we had both eaten the same thing, hoping he could provide me some insight into how he might have come across the arsenic. Please God, I thought, don’t let it be physical contact. I did not think I could handle undressing him after everything we had just been through.
I had done it before, of course, whenever an injury required it. But never had he come so close to death, and never had I feared losing him as much as I did then. I did not think I could trust myself to keep the true depth of my feelings hidden from him if I were to approach him at that moment. Instead, I dug my hands into the back of the chair in front of me and fought the urge to climb into the bed and take him into my arms. Holmes could not know of my affection for him; it was not proper, for one, and I had no doubt it would spell the end of our partnership if he ever did find out.
Holmes looked away from me, without replying to my earlier comment. For a moment, I thought he might close his eyes and go to sleep, but he surprised me by suddenly lifting his head from the pillow, and saying, with all his usual certainty, “Watson, I think I know the killer’s secret!”
He made to get up, and I abandoned my resolve to stay by the foot of the bed.
“Holmes! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
He propped himself up on his elbows with a determined expression. “Why, we must confront the family! Only then will we know who—”
“It is nearly two o’clock in the morning and you’ve just been poisoned,” I exclaimed, pushing him back onto the pillows. “You are not going anywhere.”
“But, Watson,” he protested. His voice was still a bit weak, but he was beginning to sound like his usual self. Through my disapproval, I felt an undercurrent of relief; the ipecac, it seemed, had worked.
“No. Holmes, I am serious. You nearly died. You need to rest.”
He huffed in annoyance, but did not argue further. “Very well. Perhaps it might be better to have the killer believe he has succeeded in getting rid of me. His reaction to seeing me alive and well tomorrow might give him away.”
I relaxed, grateful that he would not try anything else that night. I sat on the side of the bed, and took his hand into mine, pressing two fingers along his wrist. His skin was clammy, but his heart rate was back to normal. He seemed well enough now, but I was loath to leave him alone. What if the murderer somehow discovered he was here and attempted to finish the job?
Holmes twisted his hand and wrapped his fingers around mine. He gave me a warm smile, and I could read the gratitude in his eyes and… could it be that there was something more than gratitude there? Or was it simply wishful thinking? For a moment, I entertained the notion of leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips before shaking myself out of my reverie. What he needed now was rest; so did I, for I had no doubt that my overactive imagination and inappropriate impulses were due to my exhaustion getting the better of my restraint.
I pulled my hand free reluctantly and stood up. “You really ought to rest a bit, Holmes.”
“Watson.” He paused and something I did not recognize passed over his eyes. “Don’t go. I—”
My heart squeezed painfully, and I bit the inside of my cheek before I could say something I would regret. How I longed to tell him that I never wanted to leave his side again!
“Of course not, my dear chap,” I replied instead. “While I’m sure you should be quite all right now, I will feel better if I keep an eye on you for tonight. I’ll be right here,” I gestured at the chair by the foot of the bed.
Holmes nodded and closed his eyes. I turned away, knowing he would be able to sense the weight of my gaze on him if I did not. I only allowed myself a small peek before I blew out the candle. He looked entirely peaceful, without a trace of pain on his face anymore. A lock of hair fell over his forehead and before I could realize what I was doing, I brushed it away. Holmes stirred, but did not wake. With a sigh, I extinguished the candle and made myself as comfortable as I could on the chair.
“...tson. Watson!”
I awoke to Holmes crying out my name in his sleep. He was thrashing about on the bed and suddenly let out an anguished sob. I jumped out of the chair, banging my knee against the bedframe as I rushed to his side.
“Holmes, Holmes, I’m right here.”
“Watson!”
I took one of his hands in mine and shook his shoulder with my other hand. He gasped wetly and stilled.
“Watson?” he whispered.
“I’m here, Holmes. Don’t worry, it was just a bad dream. You’re all right.”
“I—”
I moved my hand to cup his cheek. It was wet with tears, and I brushed them away with my thumb. He leaned into my touch. I wondered what he could have been dreaming about. I hated the idea that he was having nightmares, but a traitorous part of me felt flattered that he thought of me, that he needed me, in his dreams.
“Do you want me to light the lamp?”
“No,” he sighed. “I’m all right now.”
“Are you sure?”
He hesitated.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
I went to get up. My back was beginning to feel sore from sleeping on the chair, and I wanted to stretch it out before I went back. But Holmes suddenly squeezed my hand tightly.
“Watson—” he took a deep breath. “Stay. Please.”
This time, I was fairly certain he did not mean I should merely stay in the room.
“Of course, old boy. Now go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.”
I felt him shift around, and then he was pulling me down. My heart beat wildly as I lay next to him in the dark. I could feel the warmth of his body next to mine, contrasting sharply with his cold fingers that had not yet let go of my hand. We had shared a bed in the past, when a case took us away from London and the local inn could not offer anything else, but we had always kept each to our sides and had rarely, if ever, come into contact. Now Holmes was gripping my hand like he feared I might disappear if he let go. I squeezed back as reassuringly as I could and groped around for the blankets. Holmes gave a quiet hum of appreciation and suddenly wrapped an arm around my midsection, tucking his head into my shoulder.
“Holmes?” I whispered, barely daring to breathe. The idea that all this was a dream suddenly occurred to me.
“I dreamt I was in the tower room again,” he murmured against my collarbone, so quietly I barely heard him at first. “I hadn't the strength to shout for you like I promised and I… I feared…” he let out a shaky breath, and I found myself turning on my side to wrap my arm around him and pull him closer. “I feared you wouldn’t come save me in time.”
“I’ll always come, Holmes.”
“I know.”
He said it with such certainty that for a moment I was quite breathless. Of course I knew Holmes relied on me to provide the necessary physical force to apprehend criminals, but never had I imagined that he trusted me with his safety to such an extent. I wished I could have learnt of his regard for me in another manner, but I was glad that, if nothing else, this whole ordeal had allowed me to discover the depths of Holmes’ esteem.
His breathing had evened out. My eyelids were drooping, and I allowed myself to run my hand through his hair. I had dreamt of finding myself in this very position far too many times, and I found that it was far better than anything I could have imagined. There may have been a murderer loose in the castle who wanted Holmes dead, and possibly myself too, but while the thought might have kept me awake at another opportunity, I found I did not particularly care at that moment. I had everything I could wish for: Holmes, safe and sound, asleep in my arms. If I died then, my only regret would be not telling him just how much I cared for him.
All at once, I felt I could not keep my feelings to myself anymore.
“Holmes,” I breathed. He did not stir. “I promise I will never leave you to face danger on your own again. You mean more to me than you could ever imagine, and I... I could not bear to lose you. Holmes, I’m afraid I’ve fallen quite hopelessly in love with you.”
I held my breath for a moment, wondering if that would wake him. When he did not reply, I closed my eyes. Suddenly, his arm tightened around me, and I felt his lips brush lightly against my shoulder.
“Oh good,” he sighed. “I thought I was the only one.”